


Small Favors

by Alethia



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Brad POV, Canon Era, Explicit Sexual Content, Hand Jobs, M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Overhearing Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-11
Updated: 2008-08-11
Packaged: 2018-06-07 13:07:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6805915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alethia/pseuds/Alethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brad well-knew that raging desire for human contact, a proof of life, that you could still feel something good. </p>
<p>Just another of those things that no one talked about.</p>
<p>Brad leaned back against the Humvee, then slid down to sit beside his grave. It was kind of fucked up, but keeping watch and making sure some fucktard didn't wander over and make a mess out of things was the least he could do for Walt. Not hearing, though...a lost cause, that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Small Favors

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on the fictionalized characters in the HBO miniseries, _Generation Kill_ , as written by Ed Burns and David Simon and as portrayed by Alexander Skarsgard, Stark Sands, and others. It is a work of fiction, ergo it never happened. 
> 
> Set after part 5, "A Burning Dog." Originally posted [here](http://alethialia.livejournal.com/309025.html).

Brad trudged toward Walt's grave, situated not far off from their Humvee. He needed to say something more than that fucking platitude he'd offered by the roadblock. He needed to make it better.

The Iceman had lost his shit in front of the whole fucking platoon and Walt had been the unfortunate recipient of his anger. Brad was supposed to be some kind of leader. Leaders kept it together, most especially when their hungry, edgy, sleep-deprived guys made the inevitable mistake...which to their credit they hadn't done as much as they could've.

So Brad needed to make it better; now he just had to figure out how to do that.

If he hadn't been caught up in that thought he would've clued in a bit earlier. As it was, it took him until he was practically standing over Walt's grave to realize Walt's grave held more than just Walt.

Brad blinked as realization slowly trickled into his brain. He backed off and walked to the Humvee instead. His own grave called to him...but now that he knew what was going on, he could _hear_ them: the inevitable scrape of gear on gear, little ragged cut-off gasps, muttered curses. 

It could be excused as a particularly _involved_ combat jack, or could have been, had Brad not seen Walt and Gabe all tangled up in there. 

And... _fuck_. Now he had to deal with this. Or not deal. Thing was, Brad well-knew that raging desire for human contact, a proof of life, that you could still feel something good. 

Just another of those things that no one talked about.

Brad leaned back against the Humvee, then slid down to sit beside his grave. It was kind of fucked up, but keeping watch and making sure some fucktard didn't wander over and make a mess out of things was the least he could do for Walt. Not hearing, though...a lost cause, that. His brain knew what to listen for so it was all he could hear.

Brad winced at a half-choked sob, quickly covered by what might have been Gabe shushing Walt. Or it could have been the wind.

His own body responded to it—to the idea of comfort, even in his state. Sex, the last indicator of life. There was a lot of it on the battlefield, more than anyone would admit. Despite what anyone might think, Brad did _not_ have ice running through his veins.

The soft crunch of boots on dirt made him raise his head. Nate materialized out of the night, a satchel in hand. His direction would have him walking right into Gabe and Walt...but at least he wasn't a fucktard.

"Something I can do for you, LT?" Brad asked, soft enough not to carry over to the two kids trying to get some kind of relief in this fucked up war.

Nate heard him and instantly changed direction. He stopped in front of Brad and looked down at him; concern flickered in his eyes. "You okay, Brad?" he asked, soft.

"All squared away, sir."

Nate sighed and took a seat next to him. He kicked at Brad's boot, annoyed. "Cut the 'sir' bullshit," he said, short.

"Yes, sir." Just to chap his ass. And because he deserved it for that all's-well Encino Man goatfuck.

Nate snorted. He was quiet for a moment, then gestured to the satchel. "Engineering division found some food in all the supplies the Republican Guard left behind—peanuts, rice. It's not much but I figured...hell. I don't know what I figured. Maybe give Walt something other than freeze-dried chunked meat, if that. Might make him feel better."

"Walt's allergic to peanuts."

Nate held still and silent a moment and then he laughed, ragged, ironic. He thunked his head back against the Humvee. "Of course he is." His fingers left the satchel, let it flop down to the Iraqi dirt.

"He might like some rice, though," Brad offered.

"Yeah. Just—yeah." Nate didn't seem inclined to go on, move, say anything more.

Brad studied him—skin too pale, circles under his eyes, shoulders sagging. Their platoon commander was wasting away in front of their eyes, his ideals slowly suffocating him.

Kicker was, Brad knew he looked about the same though maybe for different reasons. Hell of a thing, this war.

"You look like shit, Nate."

Nate's eyes flicked him over. "So do you, Brad."

Which wasn't the point. "You should sleep, jerk off, whatever. Rest."

Nate huffed out a bitter breath. "One of these days I might be able to do that again."

"Sleep?"

Nate shot him a look. "That, too."

Brad unscrambled everything in his head and...oh. "You can't jerk off? Why the fuck not?"

Nate shrugged a shoulder, but didn't look at him. "Too little food, too little sleep, too much shit rolling downhill, who knows?" He was almost meditative...which was some fucking weak-ass _bullshit_. If your cock was broken, you _fixed_ it, period. Cessation of normal bodily functions, like sleep and desire, _that_ was a bad sign in combat.

Maybe the kids had the right idea.

Brad rolled himself to his toes, grabbed Nate's jacket, and shoved him over. Nate grunted something questioning, but didn't resist the manhandling. He fell into Brad's grave with another little grunt and just stayed where he landed. His eyes closed briefly, like he had to gather the energy.

"Brad, what—"

Brad climbed in after him, which effectively shut Nate up. He settled on Nate's thighs and started pulling at Nate's jacket without saying anything.

Nate's eyes gleamed. He didn't try to stop him.

Vest pulled aside, jacket open, suspenders, pants—Brad dug through it all, excavating his fucking LT from the weight of his own clothing, until he was able to palm Nate's cock. He wasn't even hard; a week ago Brad just _looking_ at him would have gotten him ready.

Nate shuddered everywhere. It seemed to inspire some resistance at last. "Bad idea, Brad," he muttered. But didn't pull away.

Brad leaned over him and settled their mouths together in a chaste press of lips. He started the work of getting Nate up, touch gentle, meant to entice. He stopped the kiss but not his hand, then pulled up to watch Nate's face.

It took Nate a moment to open his eyes. When he finally did, Brad answered: "The way I see it, it's a goddamn necessary one." Then he leaned back down and kissed him again, but there was nothing innocent in this kiss—using tongue and teeth and getting short, sharp breaths.

Nate's cock had risen to half-mast. Brad was already hard and _wanting_.

He shoved his hips, tilted forward and braced himself on one arm. His cock settled against Nate's hip; he thrust once, reflexively. His hand never stopped moving nor did their mouths. He kind of curled over Nate, dry humping one side of his hip, jerking his now-hard cock with one hand, tongue licking patterns into his mouth.

It finally clicked in Nate's overeducated, candyass brain that he was getting some because only _then_ did he fully get into it, shoving his hips up—pushing his cock into Brad's hand, hip against Brad's cock. He kissed Brad back, thrust his own tongue into Brad's mouth, hand settled at the back of Brad's neck. 

Nate arched into him again and Brad suddenly realized how much he'd _missed_ this. Missed _this_ , not just getting off or human contact of any kind; he missed the way Nate tasted and his breathy little gasps into Brad's mouth.

Which was all kinds of fucked, but what was he gonna do about it? Go without?

Fuck that. He'd seen where that led and it was nowhere good.

Not that he could say any of that out loud, or even wanted to, so Brad settled for teasing the head of Nate's cock and sucking on his tongue. It wasn't much of a hardship, not with the way Nate was _twisting_ against him and setting off fire behind his eyes.

For all that Nate said he couldn't jerk off, it didn't take long. A couple more swipes across the head of his cock, kissing deep and wet, and Nate was coming into his fist, hips pumping up and working Brad's own cock in the process.

The tiniest sound of pleasure, deep in Nate's throat, was the coup de grace; Brad's eyes slid shut as his whole body responded, coming brilliantly from somewhere deep inside and riding it out against Nate's shuddering frame.

When Brad came to they were gasping into each other's mouths, foreheads touching, like some fucked-up form of a lover's embrace.

He shoved himself to the side, much as he could, and slumped down.

Nate stayed where he was, still splayed out, but his eyes followed Brad. There was a question there.

Brad distracted him with one last gentle stroke on his cock, then disengaged and brought his hand to his mouth. He licked once.

Nate groaned. "Fuck, Brad," he mumbled. His eyes closed, like it was too much to watch.

"Grooming standard," Brad reminded. 

Nate snorted a laugh. "Pretty sure licking another guy's come off your hand after you just jerked him off is not what they had in mind."

"I honor the spirit if not the letter." 

Brad rustled through his crap and found a baby wipe. He cleaned up Nate, then swiped at his hand. His own dick...that was gonna be more involved and he didn't want to get into it just this second. Instead he tucked Nate away, pulled his shit back together, all with Nate's eyes burning through his every movement.

Finally returned to normal if not pristine status, Brad sat back, trying not to grimace at the feel of his briefs. "Sleep," he said shortly.

Nate's eyes were half-closed already. Brad knew that feeling—sated and tired and halfway to comfortable. Add in some sleep deprivation and it was a surprise that Nate had stayed conscious at all. 

He still had enough energy for a protest, though. "This is your grave. I have to—"

"You don't. I'll keep watch and handle anyone who comes by. Sleep," he insisted again. 

Nate's eyes closed—a fuckload of trust, that, considering the shitstorm that could come down should the wrong people get the right idea. Brad tried not to be warmed by it; it didn't really work. 

He levered himself up into the colder night air, then crouched back against the Humvee again. Keeping watch was all he could do, this night. It was a paltry thing, he knew. But at least he was doing _something_.

Nate's breathing evened out and Brad cast his senses wider. Silence from Walt's grave. Hopefully Gabe had enough sense to climb over to his own before passing out. He'd go check, but he told the LT he'd watch out for him.

And that was a trust he wasn't about to break.

***

Fin. Feedback is adored.


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